A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.
The main thing I remember about the town, other than the steep climb out, was the old guy I spoke to who was working in his field on the way into town. He spoke a happy mix of French, Catalan and Spanish - so it didn't phase him at all that I might slip in the occasional Spanish word. When I mentioned his way of talking he said: Oui, c'est tout mezclanger - even the word a mixture of the spanish mezclar and the french melanger.
After 10 minutes of chat he signed off with: voy a travailler un poc; three languages in almost as many words.
For day's I'd been seeing lycra clad racers flashing about, sometimes flashing past me. On this particular day I could a bright yellow jumper pedalling up the hill behind me and so I decided to just try a bit harder and make him work to overtake me.
I thought the top of the hill was closer than it was and so 15 minutes later I was till managing to keep him at bay though I was tiring. Still worth the effort I thought.
So I kept pedalling, trying to get a bit more space between us on the short, occasional, dips in the road. Eventually, very tired and sweaty I arrived first at the small village on the hill top where I had to stop to look at my map.
A few minutes later an old guy on a beat up mountain bike cycled up the hill with his shopping... wearing a bright yellow t-shirt.